Important Fact #1: 

I've been driving for more than half my life.  At least half of that time, I was driving a stick shift.  I love that smooth rhythm between the clutch, gas, brake, and gears - I get to control it all.  Give me an open road, with curves, hills, forests, and fields - preferably with a few vistas through in to surprise and amaze; give me a blue-sky day with wisps of cotton, about 75-80 degrees Farenheit and honeysuckle in the wind; let me handle a Mini-Cooper convertible with sports suspension . . . oh the sheer poetry of that dance . . . 

Yep - I loves me a tight manual transmission.

Important Fact #2: 

The Giant just started driver's education, and received his permit this week.  We do not own a vehicle with an automatic transmission, a fact which only recently occurred to me and Raven.  Do you see where this is heading?  Someone has to teach him to drive a stick shift, or he'll never be on the road. 

Raven and I did our equivalent of the coin toss: I pleaded that I would kill him because the sound of grinding gears (in my car - hers is still in the "shop") would make me homocidal; her case hinged on my alleged "greater patience" with the Giant, and was supported by the idea that it would be a good bonding activity for the Giant and me. She stated that my background in education would come in handy. 

She also hinted, without directly suggesting, that since it's my car, she couldn't be blamed for any possible mis-instruction which resulted in any potential damage to the car.  And she winked at me.  Sigh.

Thus, the instructor has turned out to be me. 

Today was lesson #1, which I have entitled, Finding the Friction Point.

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I originally decided that the best place to begin the lesson of stop-and-start would be the high school parking lot.  Everything about it seemed perfect - large open area, no other vehicles, very few obstacles - nothing to concentrate on except the mechanics and coordination of stopping and starting.  I neglected an important factor:  teenage fear of humiliation in public.  The location was immediately vetoed by the Giant, and along with it, any location within city limits.

Country roads?  Typically narrow and in bad condition, with no shoulder to speak of; also, people drive very fast, often carelessly, and there is a constant flow of farm equipment.  Highways are obviously out of the question.  No church parking lot I can think of has the requisite space and privacy.  We settled on a nearby state park.

As I performed each pedal sequence on the way, I verbally explained it to the Giant:  coming up to a stop sign - clutch, then brake; entering the intersection - begin to release the clutch, and when the engine begins to engage, gently ease into the accelerator.  He assured me that he'd been observing Raven and I closely, and understood.  I rolled my eyes and told him to be quiet and listen to the motor . . . when the pitch goes up, it's time to shift - clutch and release the accelerator, shift, release the clutch, resume accelerator.

There's about a mile stretch near the back of the park that doesn't have any particular "destination" or campground on it.  It proved to be perfect - very few other vehicles, all moving at a respectable slowness, pavement in decent repair.  I turned off the car.  He swaggered over the the driver's side.  I walked around to the passenger side, and genuflected (no, I'm not Catholic, but I figured it couldn't hurt) while he gave himself an extra foot of legroom and strapped himself in.

"Ready?" asked the Giant, full of savoir faire.

"Almost," I lied, opening the window and striking a match for my Winston Light.  "Okay, foot on the brake, and push the clutch to the floor."

I glanced over at his feet, already in position.

"Okay, turn the key."

The engine obediently turned over.  I drew on my cigarette, and blew the smoke out the window.  I checked the grade of the road - pretty much flat.

"Okay, take your foot off the brake and put it lightly on the accelerator."  The engine revved slightly.  "Now very slowly release the clutch, and give it a little gas as you do."  I illustrated the move with my hands, left hand moving backwards, right hand pushing down.  I looked straight ahead, braced for impact.

The engine revved a little higher, and we lurched forward to a stall.  I relaxed my jaw (teeth clenched) so that I could speak pleasantly.  The Giant's laugh was higher-pitched than usual, and he rocked the steering wheel back and forth slightly, fidgeting.

"That's okay, it happens to everyone, especially when they're first starting out.  Foot on the brake, and push in the clutch . . ."

The engine restarted.  I was suddenly glad I hadn't quit smoking this week, and took another hit of nicotine.

"Okay, let's try it again . . . foot on the accelerator, and ease the clutch up."

He took a deep shaky breath, and moved his feet.  We lurched forward, once, twice, three times . . . "Gas, Giant, gas!!!!"

We almost made it to a smooth forward motion before the engine died again.  There was a long pause.

Birds chirped, undisturbed by our presence.  A squirrel jumped from one branch to another across the street.  The essence of pine wafted through our open windows.  I looked at the Giant, who was slowly shaking his head, playing drums on the wheel. 

Memories of my first attempts with a stick shift flooded me, the lurches, stalls, and even an accident.  I looked again at the Giant, soothing his perfectionist nerves with manly cool and nonchalant bravado.  But his shoulders were slumped.  I put out my cigarette.

"Okay, Giant.  Let's start again.  What you've got to understand is that when you're releasing the clutch, you're looking for the friction point - that's the spot where you can just barely feel the engine trying to take hold.  Crank it, let's go again."

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Epilogue:

This story is true, if a bit Owlaphrased.  Within half an hour, the Giant had several successful smooth starts.  Within an hour, he was pretty consistently starting and stopping without stalling.  I'm proud of us both.  We're going again tomorrow, if I can get home from work in time. 

One more thought: 

I'm still looking for the friction point - in life.  There are a lot of issues that get under my skin - inequality, injustice, world hunger, war, torture, politics, religion.  How do we make smooth forward progress?

Maybe we will always lurch forward, stalling and sputtering, and lurching again, rolling backwards on an incline.  But I'm hoping there's a friction point, some combination of engaging the engine and controlling the combustion, in which we can move forward together. 

Aye - there's the rub.